Asked & Answered
On my first mountain bike ride of the year in Southern Utah – a spectacular place to ride by any account - I wrecked.
It started swimmingly, smooth path, sagebrush abounding, red rocks in the middle distance, rain sheeting over the granite peaks far away - absolutely picturesque. It was me, the lizards, and a whole lot of quiet.
Then a few rocks cropped up on the trail, big enough to bump up my heart rate and put a little more power in the legs. I almost bailed once but ended up making it and let out a club-girl woohoo since uphill tech is my mountain biking kryptonite.
A quarter mile or so later came a bigger rock garden just on the edge of doable. But I’d just made it over something decent so I gunned it.
Within two pedal strokes my bike and I separated. I also took leave of the edges of my vision. I cursed once and stood up. Mistake, as that vision narrowed further. So I leaned my bike on a thicket of sage and sat down on the same cluster of rocks that claimed some skin from my left knee.
Nothing else was too bad, a blossoming goose egg on my quad and what would likely be a major bruise on the palm of one hand. I’m pretty used to low-level, endurance-run kind of discomfort but acute pain is not my strong suit.
I cleaned my knee with squirted water from my bottle and made a choice; although I could turn around, it was a one-direction trail and I don’t get to ride Southern Utah very often. The scenery was fantastic, the weather was ideal, and going back felt like defeat.
So I swung my leg over the bike and continued.
What I had not properly assessed was the bruise to my confidence. The next set of rocks gave me major pause and I hopped off again. Further down the trail I realized my eyes were pinned to my front tire, which is a recipe for instability. Descents that should have caused another “woohoo” were taken with trepidation at minimal speed.
On the back half of that ride, I walked more than I have since I started mountain biking. A few tears even threatened. Although I’m no stranger to a good “mountain cry” it doesn’t usually happen unless I’m physically worn thin. Cardio-wise, this wasn’t even in the ballpark.
When I made it back to the trailhead, I racked my bike, took off my helmet, and walked down to the rocks at the entrance to the parking lot. The wind and sun worked together to dry the sweat on my back and neck. The blood stopped trickling from my knee.
Ego had been involved in this wreck, no question. I chose the intermediate trail because I felt more confident than last summer. I didn’t want to be the one going on an “easy” green trail.
Given what I saw on the rest of that trail, it’s likely I would have fallen at some point anyway. I guess my knee had an appointment with that rock, maybe my thigh wanted a chitchat with my handlebars, and then my hand couldn’t help but try and halt my trajectory towards the ground.
I wanted a challenge. So: here’s to getting what you ask for.
Inspired by events in St. George, Utah
On the ancestral and traditional homeland of the Shoshone, Paiute, Goshute, and Ute Tribes